Author: Mad Asher PM
A play on the subconscious.' Attempts to shed light on the obscurities of life, in a series of exchange of dialogue.Rated: Fiction K - English - Spiritual - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,389 - Reviews: 3 - Updated: 04-08-08 - Published: 03-21-08 - id: 2492324
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Holidays pass so fast because you enjoy them. And, you enjoy them because they provide a relief from whatever transpires when there is no holiday, such as school. But let's say you want to have fun, but that would mean the holidays would pass so fast, compared to you being bored the whole time, which would you choose?
Well, you think of all the things that define 'fun' for you, and realize that no matter what you do, what you learn, all the things you achieve, they'll all crumble to dust when you die. I mean, one moment you're a kid enjoying his or her childhood, and you can't imagine how you'd be as old as your parents. Turns out, next second you are forty and passing. When you're old all you do is regret, and think of all the things you did when you were not old. Is there any justice in life? What do you pass on—what is your legacy? Ok, so if people will remember you, is that any comfort when you're dead? And if you have sons and daughters, you might feel some satisfaction in that they share your blood, but your thoughts will darken when you realize they are not immortal, as well. Life is just a comical cycle, and if god exists, wherever he is he's laughing his ass off as he watches us climb the ladder higher and higher, gathering knowledge, higher and higher…until what? Until we reach the ends of space, inhabit all planets, increase our lifespan, know everything, create robots, clones, perfect everything in science and technology, have some wonderful novels and artistic pieces to look at, and we still won't be satisfied. You know why? We'll want more. And screw whatever progress we made, back who knows when.History always grows bigger the more you advance into the future, and our brains might grow bigger to remember it, but what's the point? To make sure the past doesn't happen, but what is time? It just goes on and on and there's no end to it. It's mind-blowing just thinking—
Stop it, Mirek. You're going off topic. You've made your point that life is pointless. Are you trying to say that those who commit suicide are actually right? That their reasons are justified? That they give this up because it's not worth anything? That even as sit having this conversation, and a millions out there can come up with all the philosophy and psychology they want, and they can argue over all the answers they want, hell, solve all the answers they want, but that'll bring even more questions to the fore, such as how did the answers in the first place? Take for instance the mystery of how we were created. A million theories out there, none of them probably true. Suppose we somehow knew the answer and it spread and everyone knew it, would we be numbed by the truth? Would we look at ourselves and say, now we know, this is who we became? But once we knew it, we'd say, "Oh, that's what we'd been thinking all along," and move on to the billions of other questions out there—like, who is god? If we knew his identity, if he dropped out of the sky one day, showing his face, would we open our mouths in stupefaction and say, "You are god, you created us, thank you for showing yourself"? This however, is for certain: that all our religions, now deemed 'fake', would crumble into ashes. There would be no 'Allah,' 'Jesus,' no Islam, no Christianity, but united into one certain, proven religion. And furthermore, all the literature and art would be influenced by this, and no longer portrayals as god on the cross, no longer portrayals of god of having no physical image, because he has one, he's shown himself, and all the art and literature would come up only with caricatures of his one true self. No more creativity, no more theories on that subject. Is that what you say?
That is just my thoughts. There may be, as you say, a billion out there just like mine, but not that matters. My thoughts might not even matter. But as the saying goes, "I think, therefore I am." A very ignorant declaration, now that I think back on it. How do we know that none of this is fake? Our dreams are fake, though they seem so real, and we use our judgments in them as we would in real, everyday life. But is this real? There may a million dimensions out there, maybe a billion different, bizarre situations happening as we speak now. The past may still be happening, the future—for there will always be a future, even when humanity falls—would be transpiring across the flimsy curtain that binds us to this 'world'. Alas, we shall never know.